


Oh, Crumbs

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Jam, John loves Jam, M/M, PWP, Sex, Sex on a table, Toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who knew eating toast could be so sexy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Crumbs

_**Oh, Crumbs [oneshot]**_  
 **Title** : Oh, Crumbs  
 **Pairing** : Sherlock/John  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Word Count** : ~5000  
 **Summary** : Who knew eating toast could be so sexy?  
 **Warnings** : Sexytimes on a table, plus the odd swear  
 **Beta** : The marvellous [](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonystar**](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/) , to whom I owe my entire CD collection.  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Ye Holy Godtiss or anyone remotely cool :(  
 **A/N** : This is crack. Except it's not. But it sort of is. YOU DECIDE.

  
John’s eating toast when Sherlock finally snaps and shouts at him.

Yes, toast. White bread (John will protest if asked that it’s actually Hovis Best Of Both, with the goodness of white _and_ brown), grilled just to the point where the bread stops being bread but isn’t quite classifiable as proper toast yet, loaded with enough jam that the slice groans audibly when he picks it up. If John were being morbid he could liken the sight to a murder – him, the cannibal chowing down on the blood-soaked arm of his victim, the only remnants of the misdeed the spatters of jam on the wipe-clean tablecloth.

But he’s not morbid. John wonders if this is why Sherlock is turning puce in his armchair – wait, Sherlock is sitting in John’s armchair, that’s not fair – and raising his voice to such a volume that the rats in 221C are probably scurrying for cover. Sherlock’s probably deduced his thoughts and wants to tell him off for making light of such a serious real life prospect. Because of all the cannibals in London. Obviously.

John takes another bite, pointedly ignoring the “That’s _it_ , John, I’ve had enough!” that had filled the air not moments before. Sherlock stands up with a flourish and an exclamation of the doctor’s name. Said doctor raises his eyebrows and continues to chew. He’s only halted in his brilliant and outstanding act of defiance (John hopes they’re being secretly filmed so he can watch this back whenever he’s feeling particularly trodden on) when said _Consulting Detective_ strides over and snatches the side plate out from in front of him with a “hmph!” of indignation.

“Sherlock,” John insists, the rising inflection adding a warning facet to his already frustrated tone (a common occurrence in your daily speech if you live with Sherlock Holmes), “I was- that’s my dinner.”

Sherlock cants his head minutely to the left as if to say something pointed and annoying about food not being important or John being a slave to his impulses or _something_ ; John doesn’t particularly care for details when he’s being deprived of food and God damn it, he’s hungry. He makes a move to snatch it back but Sherlock is already ten moves ahead, has taken his Queen and is now gloating in his checkmate. For John’s insistence, the plate hits the kitchen floor. Only one of them winces as it smashes.

“That was a good plate.” is all John can think of to say; _I’m still eating it_ goes out of the window when he remembers just what that floor has harboured since the two of them took possession of it.

“You’ll buy a new one next time you go out.”

Again, a continuation of the defiance he so wants to recapture swoops swiftly out of John’s head when he realises that yes, he will, actually, because being stubborn would only leave him with nothing to eat his toast off.

Sherlock grins, his previously present anger dissipating because he can probably read minds or something. It’s this that John realises with a sudden leap of joy that he _can_ defy.

“What was that for. That… all that.” He waves an arm around in a useless indication of the broken crockery and contaminated toast littering the floor. “Your pointless destruction of my dinner.”

It’s perfectly obvious that Sherlock isn’t going to give him an answer and is instead going to sit across him with that stubborn, _infuriating_ smile that John just wants to punch right off his face. And that’s exactly what Sherlock does for a total of ten seconds.

They both realise it simultaneously. John, for once, is just as fast as Sherlock, or perhaps Sherlock is just as slow as John. But for whatever reason, the blob of raspberry jam lodged blissfully in the bottom left hand corner of John’s mouth becomes apparent to both of them at exactly the same time. John’s motion is infinitesimal, unconscious; Sherlock’s is grand, melodramatic. A tongue darts to scoop up the condiment at the exact same moment a Consulting Detective launches himself across the table at John Watson.

John swallows once. Sherlock, with his arms splayed up by his head, lets out a guttural moan into the tablecloth.

“Um…” Seems to cover it.

At first, Sherlock doesn’t move. This takes John by surprise; he’d expected Sherlock Holmes to be impervious to mortification, and for him to just simply pop back up on his feet and breeze off to go and polish his skull or something, utterly unaffected and with no desire to mention the scene again. Instead, the man lets out a shaky sigh and unclenches his fists.

“I seem to find myself in an uncomfortable and completely alien scenario.” He speaks into the table, “I intended to prevent you from continuing your action but instead I think I have made the situation rather worse.”

“What?”

“Before, when I raised my voice at you. Do you have any idea why I did it?”

John can’t think. He really just cannot think. Now he’s _longing_ for the secret cameras to be revealed and a cheesy-grin presenter to jump out shouting “GOTCHA!”. Because this is seriously bizarre and he doesn’t like it.

“I upset you somehow?”

Sherlock scoffs, like he’s just heard the most ridiculous thing in the entire universe (he’s not one for exaggeration, Sherlock Holmes), “Hardly.”

“But you had some problem with what I was doing.”

“Yes. I confess, John, that when I noticed what you were doing I was unable to cease watching you. Eating.” Sherlock pauses, and John really wishes he could see his face because he’s not quite sure what that pause is supposed to mean, but it’s over soon enough. “And you are making it extremely difficult for me to want to not sleep with you.”

Well, that made entirely no sense whatsoever.

Or perhaps it did; perhaps Sherlock had said “I would never, ever want to sleep with you, John Watson” and John’s brain had just mutinied along with his speech and had instead changed the words to something different. Something that on the surface sounded important, and pompous, and _Sherlockian_ , but on closer inspection was actually a load of bollocks.

John’s descent into insanity sounds a much more reasonable explanation than Sherlock actually being unable to string a competent sentence together. And that’s worrying.

Sherlock sighs, “So, it seems, I have become painfully aroused by watching you eat toast, John.”

John Watson has absolutely nothing to say to that, at all.

“I assume it’s the act of you using your mouth, swallowing, licking your lips, etcetera. All of which are present in the acts of sexual intercourse I am imagining us doing.”

He’s speaking all this to the questionably clean lino, and his fingers are starting to scratch along the surface like he’s… _shit_.

“John? Are you still there?” There’s no reaction, but Sherlock seems unaware of the response his irrepressible actions are having on the man sitting in front of him. “This is making you uncomfortable.”

“You fucking think?” John retorts before he can bite it back. Sherlock’s face is still in the lino but there’s a minuscule shifting of his position that indicates more to John than Sherlock would be pleased about him knowing. “Sorry. I just. If you could hear yourself.”

“John, I am virtually all I _can_ hear. The acoustics of this position are dreadful.”

There’s a pause that John knows would _not_ be aided by a “well this is awkward…”, so he keeps silent, no matter how much he wants to fill the blankness. It all becomes too much after a minute of staring at thick, dark brown curls and tense, gripping fingers and bits of dirt wedged under them that he doesn’t want to think about.

“So what do we do now.” John says and immediately regrets it. If there was an entry in the Guinness Book of Records for the quickest realisation of an error, there would be a nice big colour photo of John Watson underneath it. He means with life, their friendship, the boundaries Sherlock just two-stepped over with a hop, skip and a launch over the table. Sherlock has a habit of taking things literally; hence John regretting his question.

“Well, the only foreseeable option seems to involve some kind of consensual sexual activity between the two of us. I am in distress, you know.”

Although it had been mentioned before in Sherlock’s inimitable style, and both of them had certainly been _thinking_ of it (you try curbing your imagination when an extremely lithe and attractive man admits he’s been fantasising about you sexually), the actual proposition of it, however pragmatically, seems to add a whole new level of reality to the situation. Before they’d been dancing round the issue despite Sherlock’s unalterable bluntness, but now the tango’s stopped and the music’s died and the presenter’s hurrying them off the floor to the green room but there’s no smiley blonde waiting to greet them, just a six foot high three letter word in bold black capitals.

John’s been watching too much Strictly Come Dancing.

He knows he’s got to think this through, because, well, he’s straight. To all intents and purposes. He’d assumed this was a given, with his amazing track record of _not_ sleeping with men and all. But now, facing an intense and intimate situation with the man who this morning was merely his maddening flatmate, John doesn’t exactly find himself protesting. In fact, his brain is confusing him by being thoroughly gung ho about the idea, and his body seems to be joining in with the Fuck Up Doctor John Watson Party because there’s no ignoring the stirring in his trousers when he thinks about the prospect.

Sex. With Sherlock Holmes.

He knows many would kill for the privilege… possibly literally. The subject’s been breached before – unwillingly, if he may add – on a couple of awkward occasions and he’s strenuously denied every accusation or deeply inappropriate question, seen the relief in the eyes of the speaker. Sherlock would probably just have to step out the door and shout “LADIES!” for half of the female population of London to emerge out of every crevice possible and form an orderly queue. Possibly a large amount of men too, it seems, because now John’s suspicions seem to be proven right; Sherlock _does_ swing that way. Or at least, he swings the John Watson way.

He won’t flatter himself. But it sounds like something Sherlock would say just to be difficult, to make John feel like he owes him something _else_. Like it’s more of a concession than an orientation or choice of lifestyle.

Or perhaps it’s nothing entirely; perhaps he’s just messing with him. Perhaps Sherlock doesn’t even have an _area_ at all, and this is just some elaborate and frankly inappropriate way of gauging where John’s interests lie. What if he consents and, instead of commencing with the agreed activity, Sherlock merely nods and takes out a pad and pen? New development: it appears that John Watson is bi-curious.

Which, he supposes, is a label he fits under now. Since his mind and body started conspiring against him, and he’s not got much else left of him to dissent to the idea except maybe his soul. And, to be honest, if you’re looking to your _soul_ to stop yourself from having sex with someone, you’ve not really got that much to hang onto.

So he’s made his mind up. Or he’s had it made up for him, but that doesn’t really change the outcome he’s now submitted to. He’s just got to hope that Sherlock’s done with experimenting on him for the day.

He forgets that he’s probably been pondering the matter in silence for quite a long time, and there’s a man lying on the table in front of him waiting for an answer.

“I could call Lestrade and ask him to assist instead, if you’d rather.” Sherlock’s voice sounds out into the lino, “I’m sure he would be more than willing to oblige. Except you _are_ my first choice.”

John decides to accept that as a compliment. He’s also grateful for the history lesson.

There’s obviously some minute change in the air or something because Sherlock raises his head, curls jumbling with the movement, and rests his chin on the tablecloth. He stares at John with an intense sort of amusement, if that’s even possible, and then in one swift motion rolls over so he’s lying on his back, spread along the table’s length, eyes on the dark patch on the ceiling.

“John, get on the table.” He instructs after a good twenty seconds of John simply sitting and staring at his changed form on the tabletop.

 _Oh._

The… table. They’re. On the table. They’re actually going to do this on the table.

“Sorry, yeah.” John replies, but that goes nowhere near to conveying the question and exclamation marks colliding in his brain. He’s quietly impressed by his restraint, although he’s more than sure that Sherlock can see through the concealment.

First he slides his chair back and takes in the sight that’s in front of him. His eyes drink up the angles of Sherlock’s nose, his chin, the pale stretch of his neck… the way his deep red shirt disappears into the waistband of his trousers with barely a crease. And how he’s never really noticed before how snug those trousers are, especially round his-

John is prevented from thinking the word; instead his brain comes up with _Perhaps he’ll let you feel it_. And then he descends into _Um_...

Sherlock clears his throat. John, spurred into action by both the detective’s impatience and his own unwillingness to procrastinate any longer, stands up and, using the chair as a sort of launching pad (he has his height to account for, he can’t just _spring up_ onto a surface that far off the ground like _some_ people), finds himself joining Sherlock on the lino. He’s unsure where to put his legs; normally he’d slide into position unconsciously, but firstly they’re on a _table_ , and secondly Sherlock Holmes isn’t remotely female… although wouldn’t that be a turn-up for the books. So he contents himself with straddling the man, and receives a low hum of appreciation from Sherlock for his trouble.

“This is weird.” John mutters, then regrets his choice of wording. There’s no denying that it’s weird, but he means _good_ weird, like “isn’t this bizarre but let’s not stop” weird. He’s worried that without a direct wire to his thought processes, Sherlock won’t know what he means. There’s a limit to how much that man can deduce; he’s not superhuman. Or at least John assumes.

“How so?”

 _Well, I’m about to pretty much change my life, not to mention my sexual orientation, by doing this, but, you know, just another day in the life of John Watson…_

“I mean. It’s teatime. We’re on a table.” Is all that he can come up with instead.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s ridiculous, like of course this isn’t weird. Like this is what all ordinary people do; what else does he think tables are for? Who uses their kitchen tables for _eating_ anymore, anyway?

Well, John thinks, if this goes ahead, he’s not going to want to use it for eating ever again.

“You do have a remarkable talent for stating the obvious, John.” Sherlock comes in with his affectionate put-down (which is really the only time he’s ever anything resembling affectionate, so John has learnt to take all that he can get on that front), smirking up at the doctor, “If there are any _other_ aspects of this situation you’d like to amend, you may as well state them now.”

John decides to act on impulse. Well, more like he doesn’t decide, he just _does_.

“Actually,”

The word and action are simultaneous; he leans forward, resting his weight on his palms either side of Sherlock’s head, and kisses the man once. When he pulls back, hovering over Sherlock with shaking limbs (he’s not as fit as he used to be, and adrenaline does funny things to your body. So does kissing Sherlock Holmes), he doesn’t quite know what he’s done. Except that it involved his lips meeting Sherlock’s and he really wants to do it again and again and again until the sun breaks back over the houses opposite.

Sherlock’s mouth seems frozen in a gentle oval. Then he swallows, blinks, and takes a moment to compose himself before saying:

“Well. That was… unexpected. But appreciated.”

John doesn’t expect Sherlock to show his appreciation physically. In fact, he’s not expecting anything at all. He’s grown used to reading ‘thank you’s in eyebrow twitches or eye movements or quirks of the lips; it’s rare that he ever gets anything vocal, but he doesn’t mind. He knows that acknowledgement of Sherlock ever needing anyone is just a prospect far too alien for the detective.

So it’s safe to say that John isn’t anticipating Sherlock’s next move. Especially when it involves hands on his hips, and a not-so-gentle thrusting of Sherlock’s own up against him. It’s more of a slam, really. And, when accompanied with a choked off gasp from said person, it’s enough to make John close the gap between their mouths immediately. Sherlock responds this time with tongue and teeth and _oh God_ , he’s moving his hands round to John’s arse and they’re actually… they’re… John can’t think. Not when Sherlock is simultaneously squeezing with his hands and pushing upwards with his hips and exploring with his tongue. Really, the doctor can’t take that much sensory overload. If he’s not careful things will be over far sooner than either of them want.

“You’re forward.” John half talks, half gasps when he regretfully detaches himself from the amazing… God, it’s amazing, why the hell did he even stop?

“I’m also very much aroused.” Sherlock’s voice rumbles; John’s never heard it this low. The sound shoots straight downwards and he knows that Sherlock would laugh if things weren’t as they are, “Things need to progress.” He arches upwards again, forcing a moan from the depths of John’s throat.

“Right.”

 _You don’t have to tell me twice._

Except, it becomes very obvious as John stares back at Sherlock’s eyes hooded with lust, John isn’t quite aware of how things are supposed to ‘progress’. He can only assume that Sherlock knows how things go; if he’s not experienced (John doesn’t want to think about this at all), he’s at least had his fantasies. To John, this is completely and utterly new. Absolutely fucking fantastic, but new and confusing and he’s not got a clue.

There’s a sigh, and they are still in such close proximity that he feels it on his face.

“If you’re unsure where to begin, removing my clothes would be a welcome start.” Sherlock fills in for John’s brain, which is currently unable to process any thought that isn’t _I’m just about to have sex with Sherlock Holmes_ or _Christ, I’m turned on right now_. Except he’s showing the latter, really, rather than thinking it.

John pushes himself up into a kneeling position, still straddling the long, slender limbs of the man beneath him. Sherlock, infuriated by John’s relative slowness (in a way John appreciates Sherlock’s allowance to let him take charge; he knows it must frustrate him, and this must prove something. He doesn’t want to think the word “trust”, but does it anyway), begins on his shirt; the buttons detach with the barest flick of his fingers. It really isn’t fair, because when John’s hands meet Sherlock’s flies he finds himself all fingers and thumbs. It’s an almighty faff to even get the zipper down and John wonders why he’s supposed to be good with his hands. He should amend his CV: exceptional hand-eye co-ordination, except in sexual situations with Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually the waistband is loosened, and John pulls apart the fabric to reveal tight, black, _tight_ boxers. Holy hell they’re tight. And Calvin Kleins; John forgets to be impressed but he will be, later, when his brain’s not in his cock. The trousers are discarded, they fall somewhere along with the jam, and John plucks at the name barring him from his goal. Uncertainty has taken him, grabbed him by the throat and stopped his breath as he stares down at this new and confusing but somehow _perfect_ sight. Unfortunately the perfection doesn’t outweigh his inexperience.

“John, now is not the time to become a prude. I assure you we are not that much dissimilar; the process works the same. _Progress_ , or I will do it myself.”

John wills his fingers to move, to progress, but he, he just…

Sherlock smacks the table with his fist, “For God’s sake, John, don’t just sit there staring! _Do_ something!”

A deep breath is inhaled, probably too much air if he’s really thinking about it but he’s not, John doesn’t have time to think about how dizzy he’ll feel, he’s just going to do this; Sherlock isn’t going to _bite_.

Or, maybe he will if John asks nicely enough. This thought spurs him on somewhat, and John finds himself peeling away the elastic and cotton and he’s pretty sure he’s not been breathing for a worrying length of time, how is he not dead by now? His eyes follow the fabric down and down, past Sherlock’s thighs and knees until he can’t pull it any further; Sherlock lets out a noise of annoyance from the head of the table that signals to John that his presence is needed elsewhere. It’s when his eyes fall back to their previous place that John thinks every expletive he’s ever known all at once.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

He’s probably said a few of them, as well. That can hardly be encouraging. But, by the looks of things, Sherlock doesn’t particularly need _encouragement_. John swears again.

“Undress,” Sherlock glares down at him, “But only if you can do it quickly.”

…And John immediately sets upon the quickest removal of his clothes that he’s ever attempted in his life. He curses his decision that morning to put on his button-up shirt rather than a simple, easily removed jumper or something. The buttons are fiddly, annoying as hell, and are mostly scattered across the floor when he finally gets the thing off his back. The undershirt follows, accompanied by a sort of “oooft” of appreciation from the naked form on the table. John tries to keep his eyes off Sherlock’s body as he unbuckles his belt, but it’s really damn difficult when he’s… and… yeah.

He has his jeans round his ankles and is completing a sort of ungainly shaking move with his left leg to try and get the bastard things away when he feels a hand on his chest; it’s warm, soft, with a hint of possessiveness in the way the fingers are slightly curved. John immediately halts the motion and turns back to Sherlock. He’s sitting upright, knees up by his chest, staring at John with an intensity he never thought possible until now. He thinks he’s seen all of Sherlock’s looks; he could catalogue them, if he had the time or the lapse of sanity. But this one seems different, unholy, inviting. John swallows once.

“I can handle the rest.” Sherlock mutters, his voice so low it almost isn’t audible to John’s middle-aged ears. His hand seems to burn John’s chest with its heat, its intention, as it slides downwards with excruciating sluggishness. John settles himself into a kneeling position and Sherlock makes a noise of displeasure without opening his mouth; his eyebrows slide into a frown while his hand continues its descent. When his fingers meet the waistband of John’s old M&S boxers, faded from months of washing machine abuse at hot temperatures, a gasp and a shudder are wrung out of the doctor. Sherlock’s eyebrows settle back into place and he simply instructs:

“Kneel up.”

John does as he’s told, even though he can’t see how the added height will help. He’s just gazing over the top of Sherlock’s mop of curls when he feels his boxers being slid down off his hips and the world suddenly gets a lot more distant. Legs are slid around his, and his thoughts centre down to one syllable swear words. When he feels fabric draped across his calves he takes the hint and shimmies them off himself, chucking them somewhere once he’s done. He’ll probably find them later encrusted with crumbs and raspberry jam but for now he couldn’t give a stuff about the extra washing. Not when the palm’s been replaced by… _shit_.

“Nnnngh.” Comes out of John’s mouth when he feels Sherlock’s own trailing kisses down his stomach. It’s surprisingly more intimate that he’d been expecting; somehow the detective’s anger seems to have vanished along with any need for haste. John lets himself be pulled down onto Sherlock by strong arms and tightening thighs and the track of kisses moves upwards to his chest, collarbones, flickering against the scar tissue on his shoulder. It’s all frighteningly natural, calming, _right_ , and John doesn’t give a shit about oxymorons when Sherlock’s adding teeth to the kisses travelling up his neck. He can do nothing but tilt his head back and stare up at the kitchen walls as his irrepressible moans of pleasure and _hnnnffgh_ are answered in turn by low murmurs and growls. Christ, they can’t keep this up for too long, he’s going to explode.

John never quite thought he’d be reminded of his army training whilst in the middle of sex with Sherlock Holmes (the thought would be amusing if Sherlock wasn’t sucking on his jawbone), but it all suddenly comes back to him when he contemplates his situation. No matter how delightful it is, their little detour to Send John Watson Crazy With Arousal Land needs to be brought to a swift close in order for them to reach their intended destination before running out of petrol. So John is forced to disengage Sherlock from the soft skin underneath his jaw line and press him against the sticky lino of the table with strong arms that still hold memories of the conflict. Instead of dissension, Sherlock’s eyes flash with exhilaration and his lips part as if foreseeing John’s next plan of action. Which is to close that gap again, and never let the hell go.

“John…” Sherlock gasps when the doctor pulls away for oxygen, his breathing shallow and uneven. His composure, the control he had maintained for so long, slips; he looks up at John in a mixture of want, lust, frustration but also… desperation. A submission to the man on top of him, an admission that he’s no longer in command anymore… that, for once, it’s _him_ that needs John and not the other way round. It’s a plea to end this, but end it well.

And oh, how John intends to. He’s still got no exact ideas, but he’ll figure it all out as he goes.

It’s downwards that he goes, marking Sherlock’s skin in much the way the detective had done to him before, adding in tongue and teeth as he travels down to the tufts of hair below Sherlock’s navel. If John thought the noises unsuccessfully bitten back from simple kisses on his stomach were interesting, they’re nothing compared to the groan almost jolted out of Sherlock when John takes him in his mouth, enveloping him in warmth and wetness.

For John, the feeling is new. For Sherlock, the experience is unquestionably unprecedented.

John also finds it surprisingly… _agreeable_ , if not for the fact that he’s teetering on his gag reflex, but the uncontrollable little jerks and movements Sherlock’s hips are making as John hollows his cheeks and sucks harder. It’s the feeling that this may just well be the undoing of the detective that gets him, grabs him, pulls him into the fiery furnace of his arousal. John wraps his hand round the rest of Sherlock’s cock and mirrors the movement with his mouth; he pulls in and out, almost smiling as the friction elicits curse words and scrabbles at the lino. Sherlock is unable to speak in anything but consonants when John pulls back, licking a stripe of saliva along the underside, and finishes the motion with a flick of his tongue round the head. But it’s then that he inclines his chin and slides his body upwards. He doesn’t even give Sherlock time to protest; within seconds their lips and cocks are meeting and Christ, Sherlock can taste himself in John’s mouth and it’s just…

John begins to murmur something into the detective’s hot mouth but he’s quickly silenced by a hand reaching down between them and taking them both in its grip. There’s a noise from Sherlock that sounds something like “Shut up”, but it could be anything, really; there’s white noise in John’s ears and fire in his groin.

It only takes a couple of thrusts and squeezes from long, slender fingers before Sherlock comes with a judder and a cry. His movement doesn’t halt and John follows soon after; it’s a combination of Sherlock’s skin on his own and the sudden welcomed wetness and the teeth sinking into his shoulder and the thrusting of the hips and just, oh God, what are they even _doing_ , this is heavenly.

It’s a heaven that can’t last, though, and soon the real world welcomes them back with a thump. They both close their eyes, like they’ve commanded each other to do so wordlessly, like the darkness will help slow their thundering pulses. Perhaps they’re unwilling to face full reality just yet; the implications of this will rumble in their heads for long afterwards. But for now they shield themselves. They don’t need to, but they do it anyway.

Feeling his heartbeat thudding back to equilibrium, John lets out the breath he didn’t even know it was possible for him to be holding in. He collapses bonelessly on Sherlock’s chest and they lie there, together; Sherlock frees his arm from in between their bodies to drape it across John’s back in a gesture that could just be practical, but if either of them were capable of coherent thought they’d realise that it’s more than that.

“I’m having toast more often.” John murmurs into pectorals after… he doesn’t know how long.

“Shut up.” Sherlock replies with his eyes still closed and the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.

-


End file.
